April Fools

Brent Reichenberger

When I met Giancarlo DiTrapano, America was burning. I’m writing from the debris. Gian taught me the first sentence is everything. I hope I did okay with this one. The truth is, I’ve put this off for months. I couldn’t think up what to say. But really, honestly, I was scared that “When I met Giancarlo DiTrapano, America was burning” wouldn’t be everything. I only spent a week with him. He was groggy when I hugged him goodbye in the early hours before dawn. He said, Come back anytime. Told me he loved me.

A man’s lying facedown on a beach, ten swords lodged in his back. Ten of Swords. The card I just pulled. Blood leaks from his gashes. His right hand forms a benediction, a blessing. Jessica DMs and says Gian died. I DM Gian and ask, Is it true? The man on the beach turns his head and looks up at me. His mouth moves, then it answers.

I could write more. I could tell you how we listened to Fleetwood Mac while winding through Italian roads in the dark. All the things we talked about over glasses of wine and bottles of water. The food we ate. The sights we saw. How much I loved him. How much I miss him.

We only spent a week together, but Giancarlo DiTrapano changed my life. He taught me that it’s okay to say no. He taught me it’s okay to say fuck you. He taught me it’s okay to say goodbye.

Goodbye, Gian. Rest in peace.